


The kind of punks who were born in leather jackets (the kind of punks that put themselves in brackets)

by stillinblossom



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Demonstration, Fluff, M/M, punk!dan - Freeform, university!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3616071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillinblossom/pseuds/stillinblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Phil felt an almost physical pull towards him. His brown hair was curling at the nape of his neck and a lip ring occasionally sparkled in the sun. He had an air of excitement around him that almost edged on desperation; it showed in the way he looked ready to throw himself and all his might into the crowd again at any second, even roughed up like this, panting heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. </p>
<p>‘Thinking about bowing out, or just taking a breather?’ <br/>This time the boy turned fully to Phil, surprise written all over his face. <br/>‘Bow out? Are you crazy? It’s just getting started, isn’t it?’”</p>
<p>(Or: university!phil meets punk!dan at a demonstration.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The kind of punks who were born in leather jackets (the kind of punks that put themselves in brackets)

The whole city seemed to have heated up, and it wasn’t entirely due to the rays of early summer sun beating down on the people huddled closely together. It was a different kind of heat, one that seemed to vibrate in the air between them; seemed to rise up from the ground and spill out from backstreets to join the mass of people. The ocean breeze didn’t seem to dare disturbing it, the usual scent of salt from the ocean in the air instead replaced with the salty scent of warmth and perspiration. The city, usually boisterous and alive, seemed to be holding its breath silently, letting the sound of the crowd carry far beyond the part of the streets they were currently occupying. A living, breathing, roaring crowd – a single organism so high strung that only the tiniest spark would be needed to ignite a flame.

Phil felt weirdly split in half. On one hand he was a participant, emotions swelling in his chest and heart beating so hard he imagined he could practically feel the adrenaline being shot through his body in staccato rhythms. On the other hand, he was an observer of a crowd that were losing some of their human features as rapidly as they were gaining animalistic ones. The divide was odd; it made him feel torn between extremities as the two parts of him fought about the dominating role, losing and gaining momentum so often that it felt like emotional whiplash. 

Objectively, he saw what was going to happen long before it did. He saw the road the crowd was heading down, and as much as he empathized with the purpose of the protest, the road was too destructive, too paved with trouble for him to be able to justify staying there much longer. The knowledge made the experience perhaps even more intense; for a little longer he could stay and fight, stand up for what he felt was right, show resilience – he better make that time count. He better revel in the unity before it turned decadent, the way it was sure to do sooner or later.

He saw the signs of groupthink already this early on, even though he knew rather than suspected that this was just the start of it. That glint of power hunger were already faintly present in people’s eyes, accompanied with the slow abandon of the fear of consequences, the blurring of lines between what was morally defendable. The clearer the signs, the stronger the role of the psychology student grew within him. For a split second he wished he didn’t constantly analyse himself and others around him, wished to observe and to be filled with feelings he knew nothing of. He wanted again to feel without a science behind it. But then he felt another surge of emotion bordering on aggressiveness ripple through the crowd as the police started to regroup to strengthen their defences, and he decided that his time was up. 

He stumbled slightly after having pushed through the crowd, against the stream, feeling like he had been chewed up and spit out once the crowd thinned out and he needn’t use his whole body weight to barrel forward anymore. When he regained his balance, his eyes caught on a figure on the ground. The boy were all long limbs in disarray, clearly having lost his balance while he tried to enter or exit the tight knit core of the crowd. Before Phil had time to bound forward and extend a hand to the boy, he managed to scrambled up and get out of harm’s way by himself. He threw himself down again once he reached the pavement, flexing his hands, palms up. His expressions were caught between a pained wince and amusement when he inspected his hands before carefully extracting tiny pieces of gravel from where they had sunk into his palms when he had caught himself from the fall. Phil was reminded of the itching pain from a childhood full of of bicycle accidents and fast-growing legs that had made him prone to falling over himself, and had to stifle an urge rub the heels of his palms against the scratchy denim of his trousers at the sensation. He wasn’t sure what it was that made his eyes stay glued to the boy, drinking in the odd image of a boy sitting on the pavement in the middle of a demonstration turned uproar. Clad in a black leather jacket despite the heat, the same colour as most of the crowd wore, nothing made him stand out – not really. But still Phil felt an almost physical pull towards him. His brown hair was curling at the nape of his neck and a lip ring occasionally sparkled in the sun. He had an air of excitement around him that almost edged on desperation; it showed in the way he looked ready to throw himself and all his might into the crowd again at any second, even roughed up like this, panting heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. It wasn’t as much a decision as it was instinct when Phil pushed past a loose knit group of people and walked up to the boy and sat down next to him, leaving enough space between them to not impose himself on him, yet close enough to draw attention to himself.  
“You alright? Took a bit of a bad fall there.”   
“Yeah yeah. Just some scratches, it’s nothing really.” he replied, words coming fast but surprisingly articulate – the boy definitely wasn’t from here, Phil decided.   
“Thinking about bowing out, or just taking a breather?”   
This time the boy turned fully to Phil, surprise written all over his face.   
“Bow out? Are you crazy? It’s just getting started, isn’t it?”   
“It’s just getting ugly, you mean?” Phil asked, eyebrow raised in challenge. The boy snorted.  
“You say ugly, I say interesting. But hey, you go home, lie on the couch, pretend all is well. Just close your eyes to what’s happening in the world, why don’t you? Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and stand up for what’s right.” There was venom in his voice, a steely look in his eyes. Phil watched his hands curl into fists, momentarily forgetting about his stinging palms, a frustration that went beyond the current matter thick and sad and so very heavy behind his words. In any other circumstance Phil would notice all this and reflexively form a few theories, then have to will himself to drop it. Not your patient, he’d remind himself. Not your place. But when he stood up and followed the boy as he strode to re-join the mass again, it wasn’t to further probe and search. Something about the angry boy – he kept thinking of him as a boy because he looked like he was just barely 18 and seemed like he still hadn’t quite grown out of the pains of being a teenager – that hit a soft spot in him. And so he followed him closely behind, resolution to leave before hell broke loose be damned, letting the crowd close around him once more. The boy turned to him when they were once again surrounded by people, locking eyes with Phil and smiling wide before joining in with the chants of the crowd. And Phil might understand the underlying psychological processes at hand, but that didn’t mean he was above being affected by them.

~~~~~~~~~

Police were everywhere, shields and batons raised, yet it became more and more clear how outnumbered they were. Phil had managed to keep close to the boy despite the pandemonium they were caught in, and he felt on fire, alive with the mixture of red-hot anger and elation that surged through him.

The person who cast the first stone definitely wasn’t without sin; but neither was the world, nor was anyone, and so the second followed closely, and then countless more. It was clear that the slow-burning fuse had now burned out, triggering the explosion that was always bound to happen. Any pretence of peace was demolished, and with another jolt of adrenaline Phil realised that the cops were no longer just on defence. Without hesitating, he closes his fingers around the boy’s wrist and pulled with enough force to make him come stumbling into his chest. They were being rounded up like cattle, cops and horses closing in on them on both sides, and he didn’t give himself time to think before his other hand flew up to cup the back of the boy’s neck and hold him close enough to make sure he caught the message.  
“This is it, run or get arrested.”   
To his surprise, he felt the boy going still and pliant under his touch; a second of calm and intimacy in the middle of anarchy. Then they both threw themselves in the opposite direction of the rest of the crowd, pushing their way towards freedom. Their obstacles were few, cops too busy to fight off the people charging towards them to care much about the ones running away from them, but the thrill that the idea of running from the cops gave them didn’t let them slow down. Phil had lost his grip on the other’s wrist, but when their path was clear, he almost lost his footing from the shock of feeling a hand close firmly around his. 

They didn’t slow down until the sound of the riot had almost faded out, the sound of their footsteps beating hard against the cobblestone of the side streets instead reverberating between the buildings. When they did, it was on a deserted side street too narrow to even allow any traffic. They both slumped against the wall, out of breath and bursting with it all. Phil watched the boy shred his jacket, letting it fall haphazardly to the dirty ground. An array of tattoos were stretching across the skin of his arms, ranging from ones with designs too intricate to make out in the shadowy alley to ones that looked like they had been scribbled there with biro rather than with permanent ink. The realisation that he wanted to know the story – or lack thereof – behind every single one of them hit Phil like a punch to the gut. 

He was fully prepared to blame it on the much likely dangerous levels of adrenaline burning inside him when he pushed off the wall to stand in front of the boy. He had in turn straightened up now that he had regained some of his breath, head tipped back against the wall of the building as he watched Phil’s movement with heavy-lidded eyes. Phil searched for any sign of discomfort when he slowly stepped closer, occupying the same space and sharing the same air as the boy. There was none to be found, only an open curiosity now that the all-consuming anger from before seemed to be gone or momentarily forgotten. Everything felt heady and desperate, from the way the boy slowly slid down the wall slightly to account for the small height difference to the way both of their shirts clung to their sweaty chests, making it feel almost like bare skin was touching when their bodies aligned. Whereas the ends of the boy’s hair had been curling slightly before, the sweat and humidity had now elicited a whole set of curls artfully spilling across his forehead. The sharp intake of breath followed by a barely audible whine when Phil fisted his hand in those curls, tilting the boy’s head even further back, gave him the final bit of courage he needed to surge forward. He mouthed at the tattoo located on the boy’s neck, just below his ear, already thinking about getting his mouth on all the other ones; those he could see and those that were still a secret to him. It was when his lips finally met the other boy’s, having travelled slowly and deliberately across his jaw, that the realisation started to sink in – for the first time in years, he was experiencing feelings he knew nothing about. Completely out of his depth, he found himself relax and let waves of happiness and excitement wash over him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim to get out of writer's block. Terribly unbeta'ed, so any mistakes are mine. Find me [here](still-in-blossom.tumblr.com) on tumblr. I'd love to talk to you. x


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